


Love Holds No Imposition

by Phoenixflames12



Series: Outlander WW2 AU: Next Generation Oneshots [1]
Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Gotham's Writing Workshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: September 1946In a rare moment of solitude, Faith and Albert consider the possibilities of their new life together





	Love Holds No Imposition

**Author's Note:**

> A missing moment between Faith and Albert from chapter 29 of Vergangenheit

** September 1946 **

****

The sky is a soft, light blue that is dotted with clouds heralding a gentle breeze that send the clumps of brambles and ox-eye daisies that line the road within the green tunnel into a flutter as it had pushed Faith and Albert gently onward, sunlight dappling through the woven field maples and witch hazels, the light dappled and broken through the dark foliage.

 

Behind the village, the hills rear up ahead of them, the soft blanket of moorland purple darkened by the first cool bites of autumn.

 

Albert’s hand is soft in hers, the rub of her engagement ring pulling against the lines of his palm as they make their way down the road from the school yard where they had left their bicycles towards the square, the weight of his fingers squeezing lightly against her own.

 

 His eyes are distant when she chances a glance up at him, drinking in the scene before him, a small smile quirking at the corner of his mouth.

 

His face has lost the haggard, haunted look that she remembers falling into her trembling palms at the train station; the pale, hollow cheeks filled out from generous helpings of her Mam’s cooking, the lines and bends that she knows as intimately as her own reflection softened so that they seem to glow in the light.

 

‘What are ye thinking about, _mo chuisle?’_

 

She squeezes his hand as she holds his gaze, seeing for the first time that his eyes are sparked with flecks of golden hazel that floods out from the centre of the pupils to the very edges of the irises.

 

The smile widens as he looks down at her, a smile which is full of warmth and light and one that she knows that she will never tire of.

 

‘Of you,’ he replies, reaching for a kiss that brushes like a ghost against her lips.

 

He smells of woodsmoke and the lingering hints of carbolic soap from his night shift at the hospital, coming home when the first flecks of a cool, grey dawn were just beginning to rise over the hills.

 

‘Of this,’ he murmurs, pressing his lips deep in the depths of her hair, gaze raking up to take in the landscape stretched out before them. The rasp of his stubble tickles as it brushes against her hair and she has to bite back a giggle, grinning up at him.

 

He is darkly dapper in one of her Da’s old, dark herringbone suits, the line of the suit jacket’s sleeve skimming against his wrist so that a peep of white cuff is visible.

 

‘Of you, _meine Kleine._ Of how we can make a home here, if we choose,’ he holds her gaze, reaching out to cup her chin for the briefest of moments.

 

 She knows that he isn’t really seeing her then but seeing the woman that she could be in ten year’s time, a ward sister or a matron perhaps, with a clutch of children scattered about her skirts.

 

He is plotting out their lives together, a story unfolding ten, fifteen, twenty years away in the futuristic date of 1966.

 

In her minds’ eye, she sees him in that far off time, when he would be nearing fifty five and she would be thirty eight- old but not old enough to be considered useless.

 

‘Ye’d be weathered then’, she murmurs, her voice lost against the crook of his arm, eyes shining as she looks up at him.

 

They have begun walking again without any spoken consent, their feet treading the well- worn path down to the village square and he returns her smile.

 

‘Aye, weathered wi’ all the secret stories that I’d tell no one but you,’ he replies with a grin and she cannot help but roll her eyes.

 

‘They’d no’ be secret then, would they?’

 

‘Isn’t that the point of them, _mo chridhe_?’

 

Slowly, she steers him to an empty bench looking up at the young, hopeful face of the soldier immortalised forever in stone on the war memorial and silences his questions with a kiss.

 

* * *

 

 _ **Fin**_  

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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